


her ring is on your finger (but my heart is in your hands)

by trustingno1



Series: Season/Series 3 Alternate and Missing Scenes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You ran into a <i>fire</i> to save me," he says, eyes closed. "You killed Magnussen to protect me." He takes a shaky breath. "You faked your own death to keep me safe."</p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes, too. "Yes," he says, softly. He can feel John's breath against his mouth.</p><p>"You love me," John says, simply, just as certain, and the words hang between them for a long moment.</p><p>"Yes," he repeats, helplessly, and John's fingertips dig into the back of his neck almost painfully</p><p>(3x03 alternate ending).</p>
            </blockquote>





	her ring is on your finger (but my heart is in your hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I saw a [tumblr post](http://lindefishway.tumblr.com/post/80160622390/john-is-not-wearing-his-wedding-ring-i) about whether or not John's wearing his wedding ring at the airstrip in HLV and this ... just sort of happened.

John's waiting by the living room window, watching the street, and he must have seen Mycroft's car drop Sherlock off, must have heard him, heavy on the steps, but he doesn't turn around.  
  
"So," he says, fingertips on the curtain. "What's the verdict?"  
  
Sherlock pauses, fingers twining in his scarf.  
  
"Eastern Europe," he says, and his voice sounds rusty.  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Six months," Sherlock says, barely moving his mouth, and John turns his head to the side, sharply.  
  
"And then?"  
  
There is no "and then", and his chest _aches_ and he can't - his mouth can't form the words  (but John's here, in what used to be their living room, and he's allowed to just have this, tonight), so he hangs up his coat, silently, and John turns to face him properly.  
  
"Ah," John says, hands in his jacket pockets.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, simply, and he's moving towards John (slow but _inevitable_ ).  
  
John licks his lips. "When - when do you leave?"  
  
"In the morning," Sherlock says.  
  
"I'll-"  
  
"No." Sherlock cuts him off before he can say it, before Sherlock can _hear_ it, because if John offers, he might not be able to refuse and he's spent the last three years of his life keeping John Watson _alive_ and -- "Mycroft would never allow it," and John bristles at that (he's so predictable, but it's not dull (it should be dull. Why is it not dull?). It's just - familiar.) Sherlock meets John's gaze for the first time, tonight. "I asked him to swear on the Queen," he says, lips twisting into something that feels like a faint smile, and John pulls his hands out of his pockets, fists clenching and unclenching.  
  
"You can't-" John breaks off, frustrated. "Sherlock, you can't just make decisions about my _life_ -"  
  
"If it keeps you _alive_ ," Sherlock says, and John flinches (at the tone or word choice? He's not sure), "I can and I will."  
  
"Yeah, but-" John cuts himself off again, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, and John tries again. "If you're not - here," he says, almost helplessly, and Sherlock's fingers _itch_ with the need to touch him.  
  
"John," is all he says, and John tugs him down until their foreheads rest together (and how can he be expected give this up?)  
  
"You ran into a _fire_ to save me," he says, eyes closed. "You killed Magnussen to protect me." He takes a shaky breath. "You faked your own death to keep me safe."  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes, too. "Yes," he says, softly. He can feel John's breath against his mouth.  
  
"You love me," John says, simply, just as certain, and the words hang between them for a long moment.  
  
"Yes," he repeats, helplessly, and John's fingertips dig into the back of his neck almost painfully.  
  
"Why didn't you _say_ something?" John asks, voice tight and _hurting_ and this, this is exactly what Sherlock didn't want.  
  
Breathe in. Breathe out.  
  
"It would have made you - unhappy," he says, as evenly as he can, and John presses their foreheads together harder. "It _would have_ ," he insists  
  
(convincing John, convincing himself; he doesn't even know anymore).  
  
"Maybe," John says, all wobbly now, "maybe in the short term, yeah. But - _Sherlock_."  
  
He lifts his chin a little, breath puffing against Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock opens his eyes.  
  
"There was never a good - time," Sherlock murmurs, and John's brow furrows in disagreement, but he doesn't open his eyes, and no - _no_ \- John doesn't get to argue with that, not tonight, and it takes every bit of strength he can muster to pull away  
  
(John lets him, but he keeps his hand there, gentle on the back of Sherlock's neck).  
  
"When?" he asks, and John finally opens his eyes, "John, I'm about to pretend to jump off a building in front of you and fake my death for an indeterminate amount of time; just thought you should know that I love you," it's _scathing_ and the breath John sucks in through his teeth hisses in the silence of the room.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, quietly.  
  
"No, enlighten me," Sherlock says, tightly, "Before or after your wedding? Congratulations on the big day, John. _Terribly_ happy for the both of you. By the way - your wife's pregnant, there's an attempted murder playing out and have I told you that I love you?"  
  
" _Don't_ ," John says.  
  
"Maybe after Mary gave you the memory stick? That would've been the _perfect_ time. Yes, the woman you promised to love for the rest of your lives - the mother of your unborn child - has betrayed you in an unconscionable way, shot your best friend-" he lifts his hand in a half-wave, "and potentially endangered the lives of everyone you hold dear, but, John, oh, forgot to mention-"  
  
" _Stop it_ ," John snaps, yanking his hand away, and he's breathing hard. "Just - stop it."  
  
"I've been telling you for _years_ ," Sherlock replies, just as breathless, "so you don't get to pretend _now_ that this is somehow _news_ to you."  
  
And, oh, _there_ it is, and John freezes.  
  
Sherlock's chest is heaving with - adrenaline? No, emotion; how _odd_ \- and John's just staring at him, and he moves to step around John because it's too _much_ , he doesn't _do_ this, but John stops him, hand balling in Sherlock's shirt at the small of his back, in a loose, one-armed embrace.  
  
"Don't," John says again, but quieter. He steps into Sherlock, lightly brushing against his chest and if this is love, it's perfect and awful and everything he thought he'd shut off. He reaches out and rests his hands on John's hips (nothing demanding, nothing overt, but nothing appropriate of _colleagues_ , of _friends_ ).  
  
"You should go," Sherlock says, softly, even as he tugs John closer, "Mycroft's sending a car for you and Mary in the morning."  
  
John snorts, head dropping forward until it rests against Sherlock's chest for a moment. "Yeah, well. That's tomorrow."  
  
Sherlock blinks, and John lifts his head and he's right _there_. "So - tonight," Sherlock says, like he's incapable of stringing a _sentence_ together, and John's touching his jaw, his neck.  
  
"Tonight," John says, agreeably, and he knows that when he swallows, John feels it against his fingertips.  
  
" _John_ ," he says, almost uncertainly, and John's thumb on his chin urges his mouth open a bit before John leans up and kisses him, slow and careful and Sherlock's hands tighten on his hips as John cups the back of his neck again.  
  
"I," John says, voice rough like it always gets when he's vulnerable, exposed - the things he knows about John Watson - "have loved you for _years_ , you _dick_."  
  
(And, oh. The things he _doesn't_ know about John).  
  
There's - he has to - re-organize, re-categorize, but John pulls him into another kiss, hard and _desperate_ and - later. He can do it later.  
  
John threads his fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck, and Sherlock makes a noise like he's hurt (isn't he?) and presses harder against him.  
  
"Tonight?" he asks, against John's mouth  
  
 _(stay with me tonight; love me tonight)_  
  
and John (John, who's been fluent in the questions Sherlock asks with a flick of his gaze, a tilt of his head, for years, now) pulls back and meets his gaze, steady and sure and _alive_. Ready for another adventure (ready for one last adventure).  
  
"For as long as I can," John promises, in answer to - either; both.  
  
He licks his lips and kisses Sherlock again, achingly slowly, until Sherlock can't _breathe_ and there's nothing - _nothing_ \- he won't do to come back to this (to _John_ ).  
  
  
  



End file.
